School days
by cinammonsticks
Summary: John Watson starts his last year of school and is told to take care of curious new boy Sherlock Holmes. He can't help but be fascinated with him and an unlikely relationship blossoms. Sherlock/John. Boarding school AU.


**Title:** School days

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Rating:** M, for future chapters

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock. If I did, the "homoerotic subtext" would just be "homoerotic text".

**Context you might not know:** In the English education system, the top two years are called Upper & Lower Sixth form. A course spans the two years, you take AS-levels half way which are like sub-exams to the ones at the end of the second year (A-levels). It's the pivotal period in a student's education, few people move schools once it has started.

**A/N:** Mycroft talking about young Sherlock in series 2 got me wondering what he was like back then. This story is how I'd imagine he and John would have been if they met at the age of 17. Also I've been reading the original books so I wanted to write as Conan Doyle does, entirely from John's perspective. However, I'm still using Moftiss' Sherlock & John, and setting it in modern day. I'm also reading Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and rereading Eoin Colfer's _Artemis Fowl_ so you might notice some influence seep in. Seeing as I attend a boarding school, I thought I'd use my knowledge in that area and write them into one.

* * *

><p>I was panting slightly when I reached the landing - I had just lugged my truck all the way up the stairs to the top floor of the old school building on a Sunday evening. It was the start of my last year at Woodgrove School for Boys; being seventeen and at the top of the school hierarchy would be a relief, but it also meant the whole year group had their rooms all situated on the very top floor. The stone stairwell was a bitch to climb carrying all my sports kit, books and bedding. Parents, teachers and students were rushing about with bags and their hard shoes on the wooden floor were making a colossal din, threatening to worsen the headache I had got from the two hour car journey up to the school. Luckily my room was labelled just across from the stairs.<p>

**Room 245**

**John Watson**

**Upper Sixth**

Despite the fact that I pride myself on my toned muscles, I was beginning to kick myself for packing quite so much in my worn old trunk. I dragged the bloody thing in and when the door shut behind me the noises from the corridor were thankfully muffled. My headache began to alleviate quickly. I looked about; the room was alright by school terms: there was a single bed (beginning-of-term papers on top), a wide desk built into the far wall that had a single window with a large ledge and opposite my bed a small hanging cupboard was against the wall. Faint remnants of previous inhabitants of the room were scattered about: bits of blue-tack on the walls, faded scrawls on the desk, worn patches in the carpet, but otherwise the room was in quite good nick. Collapsing back on the stark bed I flicked through the papers: there was my timetable (great, free period first thing on Monday), the school rules (whatever), and finally a review of the jobs of a "minder". What? The sheet told me that I was to "take the new student to all his classes and help him fit in to the school rituals, and show a welcoming spirit". There was a new kid? Halfway through the A-level course? What? Just then, Matron Catherine bustled into my room with a cupboard. "Ah John, excellent. I need to brief you on some new matters for the coming year. Where are your parents?"

"They're gone already, didn't want to stay," I sat up.

"Good, the sooner all the parents are out, the sooner we can get some order around this place."

"Matron, whose minder am I? Is there a new boy?"

"Just what I needed to discuss," said the stout woman, putting her arms behind her back in a military-like stance so that her hard features looked even stonier, "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's not arrived yet, but he'll be in the room next door. He has similar classes to yours so I want you to ensure he gets to all his lessons, understand the school rules and evening rituals and suchlike. It's all on the sheet."

"Yes, I've read it," I said dismissively, more interested in something else about the new boy, "But Matron, why is he coming now? It's a bit odd to come halfway through Sixth form, isn't it? Why did he leave his old school?"

"As I understand it, he was expelled. However Watson, I don't want this as common knowledge. He'll have enough trouble getting to grip everything without any gossip going about."

Matron knew I wasn't the type to spread idle chat anyway, but she felt the need to warn me. For all that I liked to know everything that went on around me, I tended to keep things to myself. I preferred listening to talking. "Yes Matron," I conceded, wondering what the guy had done to get expelled.

* * *

><p>An hour later, the corridor had quietened down. A few parents still remained and most of the boys were either unpacking or chatting in the rooms. Mark Ellis was sitting on my desk describing his holiday escapades as I put away my school trousers, "… it was brilliant because she was American and all I had to do was open my mouth and talk in my British accent and she would practically melt! Didn't even care that I don't have abs like yours!" he laughed, clapping his thin hands together, a grin cracked across his wiry face.<p>

"Ellis, just join army training with me, you're guaranteed abs if you do those exercises," I told him.

"Nah, too tiresome,"

"Then you're limited to only Americans!"

"I'm not complaining," he grinned.

I chuckled as I tossed my trainers under my bed. Just then, my ears pricked as I heard new voices in the corridor, "'Room 244, Sherlock Holmes' – that's you brother,"

"This must be the new guy," I said to Mark, "Sorry, Ellis."

"See ya," he said, hopping off the desk and slipping out the room. I followed him out and saw two people in the corridor with another man heaving the biggest trunk I had ever seen up the stairs. The man with the trunk was the Maths teacher, Mr Greene, a dislikeable man to say the least. He would never help a student with their trunk, let alone one that size up so many stairs! "Thank you for your help," said the older boy who looked about twenty-five with a broad forehead, hard eyes and a pristine pin-stripe suit.

"Anything I can do, Mr Holmes," said Mr Greene with a slight head dip.

Was that a bow? Greene wanted to help someone? What the hell?

When Greene had gone, breathing heavily, I went to introduce myself, hand outstretched to the older boy. "Hello-" I started.

"You must be John Watson," he cut across, briskly shaking my hand, "my brother's 'minder'. I'm Mycroft Holmes. I have to be gone now; I'll leave you with Sherlock. Good day." And with that he walked off down the stairs, leaving the other boy with me and the trunk.

I turned to take a look at Sherlock Holmes properly and was lightly surprised by his appearance; I had expected a drop-out look but found the opposite. The boy was very slim, of average height and dressed entirely in black clothes, all of which looked expensive and mature for a boy of seventeen: black polished shoes, black ironed trousers, and a slim-fit black shirt with the top button undone, exposing a triangle of marble white skin. The boy's face was curious, ghostly pale with startling silvery grey eyes that scanned quickly over me, exposing no expression. His cheekbones were incredibly high and his dark, faintly curled hair dropped round to frame his face. All youthful buoyancy that should be found in a seventeen-year-old was undetectable, replaced by an unreceptive cold air of indifference. I wondered again what he had done to get expelled.

"Hi, John Watson," I said hand extended again.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said simply in a luxurious voice, shaking my hand with his surprisingly soft, cold one.

"Do you want me to help with that trunk?" I asked, noticing it was unlikely the slim boy would be able to manage it.

"Thank you," he accepted.

I heaved it into his room, next door to mine. Holy crap it was heavy! What had he packed in there? The door shut behind us and when the boy seemed to have no conversation to supply, I spoke up again, "Well, I'm right next door," I slapped the wall between our rooms, "If you want me, just come knock. I'll fetch you for breakfast tomorrow. The bell goes at seven so you'd better get up pronto if you want anything to eat. I'll run through the rest tomorrow; you have a free period at the same time as me – first thing. Your timetable and stuff in on your bed," I indicated the sheets, "So, I'll be gone, if you don't need anything?"

"No. Thank you, John," he said, watching me.

I left quickly because I couldn't help feeling exposed by his watchful stare as though he was as curious about me as I was about him, but he could somehow read me. Returning to my room for the evening, I didn't hear anything from next door until at eleven o'clock I heard the click of the light switch after Matron's shout of "Lights out!"

As I lay in bed, I mused on Sherlock Holmes, his unreadable face printed in my mind.

* * *

><p>The next day after registration, Holmes and I had both returned to our rooms for the next hour – our free period. Holmes had been consistently silent throughout the morning. The only emotion I could decipher in him was reluctance; he clearly did not want to be here. It was frustrating because I wanted to help the guy, but his sullenness prevented me from doing that. Maybe I should just confront him? Neither of us had any work to be doing yet, so he would be free now. Right, I would go talk to him and force him to talk back. Also, I might find out why he was expelled from his last school, I was dying to know. I went to his door and knocked politely. "Yes," was the reply from within.<p>

I came in. "Hey, I just came for a chat; we haven't really had the chance."

"There's nothing to find out," he said simply, sitting cross-legged on his bed, a book in his lap.

"There's sure to be something I can tell you or you can tell me," I reasoned.

"Nothing I don't already know," he said, looking down at his book again. I took a quick opportunity to glance around his room: it was already messy, his clothes from last night were draped across the chair, some stained heavy-duty looking volumes were strewn across his desk, a violin lay at the foot of his bed and he had a large fiddly-looking microscope. The overall effect was quite mismatched.

"I'm pretty sure you don't know everything about me, that's impossible," I said.

At the word 'impossible', Holmes snapped his book shut and fixed his pale eyes on me. "I know that you're a sportsman, particularly into football; you're also into medicine. You spent this summer at home in England, you got a girlfriend but it was just for the holidays. You don't care much for your parents and your sister pesters you, probably has issues. You're liked in this school but don't have any particular friends. You don't like it here."

He spoke all of this with a total straight face but I was in shock. I should probably be angry and accuse him of nosing like any other guy would; but this boy was strange, even alien, and I had an awareness of his penetrating intellect.

"How can you possibly know all of that?" I whispered.

"Simple observation,"

"Yes?"

He sighed and started again, "You're in shape – you could pull my trunk – says physically active. Schoolboy? Sportsman then, perhaps army training. Your shoes have scuff marks on the inner toe – from playing with a football. You had books on medicine in your locker this morning that aren't on the curriculum, so a medicine enthusiast, maybe an aspiring doctor. You're not very tanned despite being a sportsman, so you were somewhere with little sun for the summer. You could have gone abroad, but with your family's money troubles it's unlikely, so you were home in England where we had a rainy summer."

"'Money troubles'?" I cut in.

"Your clothes are second hand, poorly made and ill-fit despite this school having high fees: your parents are trying to cut back on expenditure. Now, the short term girlfriend … you're wearing a bracelet – likely to be from a female, you wouldn't buy that yourself and boys don't buy bracelets for each other. She was likely to be a romantic interest yet you didn't mention her this morning when all the other boys were talking about their summer girlfriends. That suggests something happened you'd rather avoid mentioning – it didn't work out – the fact that you're still wearing the bracelet says she broke up with you, you'd want rid of it if it were the other way around: sentiment, you see. Simple observation."

I spluttered slightly, not sure if I should be offended or scared. The seated teenager charged on, "Your parents didn't accompany you into the school, or didn't stay long to help, so you're not very close. Your sister texted you at breakfast but you frowned and didn't reply – says resentment – that and the fact that she has distant parents suggest she probably has personal troubles. You've spoken to many people today – all briefly and most people have smiled. Except, in conversation, talk never went beyond you listening to their holiday tales and you haven't ignored me since I came, despite my being the new boy that no one is interested in – no strong or particular relationships."

"You said I don't like it here?" I asked in amazement.

"How could you like it? It's entirely mundane and no one here is special to you, there is no reason for any attachment."

Slowly, I came to terms with Sherlock Holmes' impossibly perceptive knowledge. I was so shocked I wasn't sure how I felt, I eventually settled for incredulity, "That … was … amazing," I said slowly.

For the first time, a satisfied smile snuck onto Sherlock's features in acceptance of my praise. "Thank you," he said with a hint of smugness.

"But if you're that clever, what caused you to leave your last school?"

"You know I didn't just leave," he stated.

"You were expelled," I admitted my knowledge as I sat down on his chair.

"Yes,"

"Why?"

"Officially, a multitude of excuses: exploding chemistry labs, possession of weapons, missing classes, possession of cigarettes, breaking rules and generally being a disruptive student. However, the main – and unspoken – reason was my exposing of the Headmaster's affair with the Housemother on the front of the school web page. They had no proof, but they knew it was me anyway; I was expelled."

I was taken aback by his casual tone, "You don't care?" I asked.

"School is a waste of my time. If it wasn't for Mycroft forcing me, I wouldn't be here. The curriculum is totally superfluous, I don't care for it at all. The only use I have for a school is the services supplied by the science labs and the internet access. What does it matter to me which one I attend?"

"I suppose so," I replied, confused by the simple accuracy of his brash statement. "Well?"

"Well, what?" he asked.

"Well, what are you going to do here?"

"Wait until the end of year so I can leave for London, hope some interest comes up to keep me busy. If not, I'll make some."

"Make some interest?" I said disbelievingly.

"There's sure to be plenty of excitement to weed out in a school. I just have to find it," he explained.

"Excitement in this school? That'd be nice!" I laughed at his apparent naivety, "Tell me if you find any."

"You want to join me? I tend to get into trouble a bit."

I hadn't meant that literally, but thinking about it – what did I care about a bit of trouble? If sticking with the strange cunning boy meant any excitement, I wanted to be on the ride. "I'm in," I said with a grin that Holmes mirrored with a glint in his eye.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Please tell me what you think in the reviews! *Constructive* criticism is helpful too. If you have any questions, leave them there and I'll be happy to explain anything. Depending on the reception of this story, I might continue it ;)


End file.
